


I Like How He Smells

by IckeyAndMian (bananacabana)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:08:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23059747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananacabana/pseuds/IckeyAndMian
Summary: Ian and Mickey are still navigating Ian's bipolar disorder and Mickey just wants to remind him of the light of the sun.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 4
Kudos: 149





	I Like How He Smells

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was based entirely on this tweet: https://twitter.com/KaylaAncrum/status/1235789063271170048 
> 
> "A girl I was in love with back in high school had S.A.D. And when it was winter, and had been grey for a while, I would put sunscreen on in the morning before school so that she could smell it on my skin and remember the light of the sun."
> 
> Kind of canon compliant probably, but I like to think this would fit into the timeline of "what if Sami never ratted Ian out and they had time to actually work this shit out" 
> 
> Also hey, this is my first Gallavich fic!

Mickey was starting to figure out the warning signs. At first it had seemed unpredictable, Ian's mood would plummet seemingly overnight leaving him suddenly drowning while Mickey looked on helplessly, unable to pull him out of the shark-infested waters.  
It didn't help that Ian did everything he could to hide his symptoms. Whether he was trying to protect his siblings from worrying about him and likening him to Monica, or if he was instead trying to convince himself that he really was fine, Mickey didn't know.

Still, despite all Ian did, the signs were there. Subtle, but there.

He'd wear the same shirt for two days running because he hadn't done any laundry that week, he'd have nothing but a Kind bar for dinner because he didn't have the energy to cook, he'd start taking longer to reply to questions as everything within him slowed down, engulfed by the looming shadows swelling within. These were the symptoms that gradually got worse until eventually, he'd barely be able to get out of bed, skip meals entirely and stop responding altogether when anyone tried to talk to him.

Mickey knew his meds were still balancing, that it wouldn't be like this forever but fuck if it didn't still kill him to see Ian when he was like that. Mickey had promised to take care of him, had adamantly sworn to Fiona that he could handle this, but he was starting to wonder exactly how true that was. Sure, he could now spot the signs, figure his way through Ian's bullshit excuses and determine whether he was just having an off day of if he was starting to spiral, but that didn't mean he knew what the fuck he was doing. Being able to predict when a hurricane would hit didn't mean it wouldn't still destroy your goddamn house. It just left you in that unbearable period of _waiting._ Sure he could do a load of laundry, cook something somewhat edible just so Ian would eat but it didn’t actually help.

Nothing Mickey did seemed to make a difference and not for the first time did he wonder whether he was actually strong enough to do this.

Exercise was supposed to help, Ian's therapist had explained. Routine was the key: a regular sleeping pattern, maintaining a healthy diet, making plans and committing to keeping them. Getting enough sunlight was apparently important too but how the fuck that was possible in the depths of a Chicago winter was a mystery. 

Still, despite Mickey's pessimism, things _had_ ultimately been improving. There were still bad days, a lot of bad days but Ian at least managed to get himself out of bed. Then there were some days where Ian couldn't sleep and reorganised the entire contents of the kitchen at 3am. Overall though, there were a lot more in between days, where they could both finally breathe and hope, or at least pretend, that things were gonna be okay.

Mickey wasn't entirely sure how long it would take for the doctors to get Ian's meds right and get his moods to stop swinging like a pendulum. He tried not to get too attached to the feeling of everything being seemingly okay, knowing that at any moment the tides could change, but as Ian's treatment continued and the in between periods stretched longer and longer, he started to allow himself to hope that maybe things were finally settling.

It had been months since Ian's last bad turn. He'd been a little jittery the last few weeks but nothing too crazy. It was just a little extra energy, nothing a few early morning jogs didn't solve. And maybe he was taking advantage of a not so ideal situation but Mickey loved the days when Ian woke up before him, pancakes on the table by the time he got downstairs. They were happy and for the first time maybe ever, Mickey started to let himself wonder if they might actually make it through this.

Until he went downstairs that morning.

"Hey," Mickey greeted with a confused frown as he stepped into the kitchen, somewhat earlier than he would ever usually wake. Ian's alarm had woken him at fuck off o'clock that morning having snoozed it three times before finally switching off the offensive thing. Mickey had heard him shuffling around the room, getting himself dressed before he heard the door click shut but by then had found that he couldn't drift back to sleep. Eventually, he figured he might as well get up and maybe surprise his boyfriend with breakfast for a change. But Ian clearly never left for his run, instead he was sat at the table, hands clasping a cup of coffee as he stared at nothing in particular. "Back already?" It's not the question he wanted to ask but Mickey knew not to push, knew he had to tread lightly while he figured out the extent of this one.

"Didn't go. Too cold out," Ian answered simply, unfocused eyes remaining fixed on nothing. Mickey couldn't deny that it was fucking arctic outside with forecasts of snow later in the day but it had been the same all week, and Ian had persistently headed out each morning for his jog.

“You feeling okay? Ian?” He stepped toward his boyfriend, hesitatingly momentarily before placing what he hoped was a comforting hand on his shoulder. Ian didn’t reply. “You take your meds?" 

"Yes, Jesus!" Ian snapped shrugging Mickey’s hand off. He hated being badgered about his meds but it was the only thing Mickey could be sure actually made any fucking difference and he was gonna make damn sure Ian let them do their job.

"Okay. You eaten yet?" Mickey asked, trying to not let Ian's outburst bother him, as much has he wanted to snipe back at him. He knew he didn't mean to be an ungrateful little bitch about everything but fuck, sometimes he really could act like an ungrateful little bitch. Ian gestured towards his cup in lieu of an answer. "That's not fucking breakfast man, c'mon. I'll make us some eggs."

"I'm not hungr-"

"I don't give a shit. I'm making you a plate of food. You can either eat it or not, it's your call."

Ian sighed but didn't object as Mickey started cracking eggs. He wasn't exactly a fine chef but this was something he could do. An unpleasant silence descended while Mickey cooked, leaving him to wonder when Ian had started sinking again. In truth, a missed run and a skipped breakfast were hardly the worst symptoms he'd ever displayed but somehow it felt like it was hitting harder than normal.

Ian wasn't even pretending that he was okay but Mickey found a strange comfort in that fact, hoping that maybe he was figuring out how to admit he needed help.

"Here," Mickey said softly, placing a couple eggs and a piece of toast in front of Ian with a kiss into his hair. "Try and eat some of it, okay?"

"Thanks," Ian mumbled, absently tearing off a corner of his toast. "...Sorry."

"Don't got nothing to be sorry for."

Ian managed a few bites before pushing the plate away. Mickey knew forcing Ian to eat wouldn’t cure him but he felt better knowing that he wasn't starving himself at least.

"I think I’m gonna go back to bed," Ian eventually said apologetically and Mickey nodded, collecting both of their plates to wash up. He felt useless as Ian trudged back up the stairs.

It wasn't long before the rest of the Gallaghers started to rise, and Mickey retreated, not in the mood to have the same conversation yet again with Fiona about Ian's disorder. He'd heard it a thousand times and he hated the way she talked about him sometimes, like he was a lost cause, a ticking time bomb and it was only inevitable that he would completely lose his shit again.

Mickey may not have known Monica but he knew Ian and he knew he was fighting this battle harder than she ever bothered to. That had to mean something.

Heading back upstairs, Mickey decided it wouldn't hurt to jump back into bed himself. In the bedroom, Ian was cocooned in blankets. Mickey smiled sadly at the sight, wishing that Ian being cold was the only thing bothering him. Summer always seemed to bring out the light in him, even before all this bipolar shit hit the fan. Ian had just always been so much more alive during the summer months, when they'd hung out under the bleachers in their spot, smiling like no one in the world existed but the two of them. Mickey's chest ached just thinking about it and what he'd had back then without even realising it. There had been no way of knowing that the boy he'd reluctantly fallen in love with was destined for...this. There were a lot of things in Mickey's life he'd give anything to go back and change but not those days in the sun with Ian, he wouldn't change a single second of those times.

Mickey closed his eyes and sucked in a breath, letting the nostalgia flood his senses.

"What're you doing?" Debbie's voice pierced through the memories. Mickey sighed, letting them slip away while solidifying himself back in the present.

"Nothing, you got any spare blankets around here? This place is a fucking freezer." Debbie pointed him towards the linen closet before she headed downstairs with a sympathetic smile, seemingly not bothered by her question remaining unanswered.

Mickey found a perfectly thick blanket at the back of the cluttered cupboard although, whoever had used it last had clearly just stuffed it back in carelessly, not bothering to fold it away neatly. He growled with frustration as he tugged it out and a bunch of shit toppled around it including a shopping bag full of bathroom products that Fiona had probably bought in bulk while they were on sale at some point. Who knew if she even realised they were still in here. Mickey was already over today and it was barely 8am. He kicked the scattered bottles of shampoo and soap to the back of the closet, more than ready to crawl back into bed when one item in particular caught his eye.

A bottle of sunscreen.

He knew this brand, it was the same one he'd used as a kid, when his mom had slathered it on him before he left the house. Curiosity getting the better of him, he popped the lid, inhaling the scent of the product inside and with it the familiarity that brought him back to those endless summer days playing hockey in the street with his brothers.

Glancing over his shoulder to the bedroom where he knew Ian was sleeping, an idea formed. Before he had time to convince himself that maybe this was dumb as all fuck, Mickey was squeezing a generous amount of the sunscreen into his palm and soothing it into his arms and neck. It felt unnatural, considering the current weather, like Christmas in July, but he didn't care, all he wanted was for Ian to remember the light of the sun.

Ian was lying facing the wall as Mickey re-entered but even from just his back, Mickey could tell that he wasn't asleep. He said nothing as he wriggled under the covers, wrapping the both of them with the newly acquired blanket and facing Ian's back. He placed a gentle hand against Ian's shoulder, wordlessly letting him know that he was here if he needed him. He trusted Ian to set the boundaries, knowing he couldn't push this.

A small sniffle came from the other boy as Mickey's fingers dragged soft circles into Ian's back, desperately wanting to just hold him. Instead he waited patiently, dutifully and with the need to prove to Ian that this was what he wanted, he was in this and this was it for him until he was six feet under.

Ian's weight began to shift beneath his fingertips and Mickey reluctantly pulled away, holding his breath while he waited for Ian's cue. The younger boy turned to face Mickey, eyes curiously inquisitive instead of blank and dazed like he'd been expecting. Mickey studied his face, watched as the confused recognition settled in. Slowly, he inched himself closer to Mickey, who couldn't stop the sigh of relief as Ian reached out to cup Mickey's jaw, burying his face into his neck and inhaling deeply.

Mickey wrapped him up in both arms as Ian fell asleep against him, the slightest trace of a smile painted across his lips. 


End file.
